


café diabolical

by dyules



Category: Trese (Comics)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cliches abound, Coffee Shops, F/M, seriously why do i even try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyules/pseuds/dyules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That AU where Talagbusao is desperately single, the Diabolical is still a café, and nobody likes a pushy barista</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. desperately single, calling for applicants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunardistance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunardistance/gifts), [Meicdon13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meicdon13/gifts).



> Because every fandom needs a coffee shop AU
> 
> Yep it's based on that tumblr post: http://brolininthetardis.tumblr.com/post/51732496539/this-is-a-coffeeshop-au-screaming-to-be-brought
> 
> Many thanks to [lunardistance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lunardistance) for the beta!! xoxox

 

The sign outside has been working pretty well. In the two hours since his shift started, more than a dozen napkins had come his way, bearing numbers and names and even a faint lipstick mark in one. It’s currently the best idea Talagbusao ever had, and it’s only ten in the morning. 

“Excuse me.” He looks up from his loot towards a young man in glasses waiting at the counter. Cute, in a nerdy kind of way, and probably underage.

Talagbusao flashes his best customer smile and asks him what he needs. The boy nervously orders a vanilla latte, and presses some bills into Talagbusao’s hands for payment. Talagbusao grins at the napkin neatly folded between them.

“Thanks. It’s gonna be a minute, Tommy.” The boy flushes a deep red as he walks back to his hooting friends, who were waving and making telephone signs with their hands.

Slipping the napkin to the growing pile in his pocket, Talagbusao smiles to himself. That’s number 19 right there. He turns to start making the vanilla latte when Hank comes out of the kitchen to accost him, _siyanse_ in hand and smelling of tapsilog. Talagbusao’s stomach rebels loudly despite just having a hearty breakfast. He can’t help it – Hank’s tapsilog is legendary.

Tapsilog-stained _siyanse_ pointed at him, Hank says, “Don’t you go preying on that boy, Talagbusao, he’s a good kid. And honestly, get that sign out of my shop.”

The sign Hank feels strongly about is the blackboard outside. While it usually advertised _Today’s Specials_ , it now reads, in bold letters:

 

“TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS:

1\. HELLA FUCKING LONELY

2\. DESPERATELY SINGLE

FOR TODAY’S DRINK, I SUGGEST YOU GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER.”

 

“Naw, we’re just having a bit of fun, Hank,” Talagbusao replies, adopting an innocent expression, which obviously did not work on Hank, for he brandished the _siyanse_ closer with a menacing glare.

“Remove it before _I_ remove it,” Hank threatens, and with that proclamation, sweeps himself into the kitchen with his heavenly tapsilog again.

Talagbusao’s stomach is rumbling in protest, and it’s only 10AM. He knows Hank wouldn’t really have time remove it himself before lunch, so there is no hurry. Besides, he’s still having fun. He still has to make that vanilla latte, and maybe add some whipped cream on top; Tommy is a nice kid after all. The café has a way of making you take your time and savor every moment, and Talagbusao is enjoying every minute of it.

 

 

\---

 

 

Sunlight is filtering through the half-open windows of the Café Diabolical, painting its interiors in a warm summer glow, quite usual in the middle of July. Talagbusao likes the simplicity of the café – it has floor length windows on one side, the curtains of which are a deep red velvet; hardwood flooring, charmingly scratched; a number of narra tables and matching chairs; and six private alcoves where the most comfortable couches are located. Potted plants and soft lighting complete the café’s homey ambience. The relative silence inside stands in stark contrast to the cacophony of noises just outside the busy streets of Nakpil, which are thankfully blotted out by glass doors and red curtains.

It is a quaint place, the family-run Café Diabolical. In line with its unfortunate name, suggestive of a demonic nature, the café also caters to some weirdly demonic people, in Talagbusao’s point-of-view. Of course, there are the usual college students who take advantage of the 24-hour open café, and night-shift workers looking for a quick pick-me-up, but some customers are just downright weird.

For example the girl who comes in at exactly 2PM every day, with something suspiciously like blood on her white uniform. Talagbusao asked her what that was once, but she shrugged it off, mumbling something about medical students before limping to the ladies room. (Curious though, he never sees her with books or bags at all.)

There’s also the shadow who always sits at Alcove 5 that nobody seems to notice and may not be a person at all. He keeps telling himself to ask Hank about it but he always forgets to. He always gets a bit confused when thinking about the shadow.

All these weird things happening to him and it’s all Carlito’s fault anyway. The eldest son of the café’s proprietor had been his college roommate, and after four years of drinking Talagbusao’s great-tasting coffee salvaged from various 3-in-1 packs and a few stolen beans from Hank’s _barako_ , Carlito offered him a job as a barista, which, as an aimless fresh graduate sporting an Araling Pilipino degree, he took in a heartbeat.

The pay isn’t exactly great, but Talagbusao likes coffee, and he’s pretty good at making it, actually. Hank was a bit skeptical of him at first, but when the shadow at Alcove 5 started ordering his _barako_ blend, he warmed up a bit. The proprietors are nice enough, even their eerie little kid Alex, who has a tendency to play with fires and pelt him with salt. Carlito lets him stay at his old room while he treks across the Cordilleras with his father for their annual hiking trip. (Talagbusao asked if he could come but Carlito said it was a strict father-and-son bonding time. He reflects that his own elderly father may prefer watching over their arcade business rather than go on a hiking trip with him.)

Another thing that he liked about being a barista is meeting a lot of interesting, albeit creepy, people. It’s a part of what he considers to be his study on Filipino nature and disposition, but what Hank attributes to boredom and general nosiness. He likes hearing their stories, their opinions on general current events, sometimes even trading coffee blend recipes and cassette tapes. His five hour long discussion on the merits of CDs replacing cassette tapes with a short red-haired woman with sharp teeth can be found etched lovingly along his right bicep. Contrary to what his hulking frame and intricate tattoos might suggest,Talagbusao can fight with his tongue almost as fiercely as his muscles.

Talagbusao’s appearance is also a point of curiosity to most of the café visitors, many of whom are taken aback by the long hair, inks up his arms, and eyes so black he looks halfway high. More suited to somebody in a biker gang, and not at all a barista in a coffee shop full of breakable materials. _Just how can somebody so large handle delicate teacups and saucers and not break them_ , they might ask themselves.

Working a 10 hour shift doesn’t exactly leave him room for more intimate social interactions, but, as Talagbusao reasons, why not hit two birds with one stone? A coffee shop is a great way to meet dates. Hence the sign outside and the 19 fresh numbers in his pocket.

 

 

\---

 

 

Having just finished Tommy’s latte and receiving a smile for the extra whipped cream, Talagbusao hears the doors open, the low rumble of traffic on the streets piercing through the stillness inside. He turns to smile at the new customers and almost drops a blender because _holy fuck that girl is beautiful_. He vaguely registers that she has a friend with her before she makes eye contact with him and he’s lost, overwhelmingly so.

Talagbusao would later confess to Carlito – in a drunken, weepy phone call – that he wouldn’t go so far as to call it _love at first sight_ because he’s not that drunk, but more like the meeting of two kindred spirits: seeing himself in her steely eyes and knowing he wants to be her everything, her whole world; seeing her curious glance over his tattoos and feeling himself flex almost involuntarily; seeing her and just her being there, in front of him. _It can’t be love_ , he would reiterate in a slur, for how could love spring between two people who have barely looked at each other? _You are not born already in love_ , he would continue in a wail, just with the capacity to love and the chances to do so, if one is willing. _What it is, is one such chance_ , he would end in a whimper, and Carlito would pick him up and make him coffee, too bitter for his tastes.

The moment passes and she turns back to her friend with a scowl, opening her ( _full, enticing_ ) mouth to continue an argument they were apparently engaged in. She pulls her long dark hair into a messy ponytail while they head towards one of the alcoves, and the sight of her bare neck is probably the most erotic thing Talagbusao has ever seen in his life. He’s having trouble breathing, but he busies himself with dragging a rag over the counter in a half-hearted attempt to clean. Snippets of their conversation float towards him.

“-prolonging US imperialism with these coffee shops sprouting everywhere! Nobody needs overpriced coffee when simple instant blends can do the job just as well! Maybe even better!” The girl’s voice carries passionately, even in its vehemence, sounding perfect to Talagbusao's ears. And it’s actually beginning to scare him.

Her short-haired friend rolls her eyes at her, “ _Diyos ko_ , Ramona, you’ve been harping on this the whole morning. It’s exactly why I brought you here. You’re all about supporting local businesses, aren’t you?”

To which Ramona – and Talagbusao tries her name in a whisper, _Ramona_ , and he loves the way it rolls off his tongue, the _R_ a distant trill in his throat – replies dryly, “At least it’s not a capitalist franchise.”

Talagbusao watches as they place their bags in the alcove to the left of Alcove 5, where the shadow is currently sipping its second cup of _barako_. After a bit of deliberation, where Ramona looks back towards the menu blackboards above his head and his heart skips two beats like a teenager, she sidles inside the alcove, apparently content to let her friend order for her. Talagbusao tries not to acknowledge his dismay at that.

“Hi. One latte and a cappuccino for my friend, please.” Ramona’s friend smiles at him from behind big glasses, and he smiles back. “So, you’re the ‘desperately single’ barista, huh? We kinda stopped and laughed for a minute at your sign. You know, you really shouldn’t put the word ‘fucking’ on there – bad advertising. Oh, the name’s Claire, with an _i_.”

“Couldn’t be that bad if it got you in, Claire with an _i_ ,” he replies, half-heartedly punching the orders through the register. Flirting is easy, that he could do in his sleep.

Claire laughs, leans over the counter, “Touché, mister. Ramona actually agreed to try your shop, and she just _loathes_ unnecessarily pricey things. Good job!” 

Talagbusao hands over her bill and she rummages inside her wallet for a while. He takes that moment to look over at where Ramona is sitting by herself, reading from some folders she pulled out of her bag, the light not quite reaching her inside the alcove, shadows working to paint her in a warm reddish hue. She would have been at home in an Amorsolo painting. Not that he knows much about Amorsolo.

A hand on his forearm startles him from his flawed knowledge of painting masters. Claire is looking at him with either amusement or disgust in her eyes. Her lips widen in a toothy grin.

“Well, I was gonna give you my number but it seems you’re more interested in someone else!” she giggles to herself, before adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “What if I give you hers?”

“Please give me her number,” Talagbusao blurts out before he can stop himself, planting both hands on the counter in his excitement. He could feel himself turning red when the girl just laughs at him again, saying _no, she can’t possibly do that, you have to ask her yourself_ , before running off to their table, still in a fit of laughter. Ramona looks up at her and then at him in bewilderment, and fuck, he’s getting weirdly aroused with her looking at him like he’s something unpleasant clogging the sink. 

He spends the next hour stealing glances and secretly hoping she’d give him her number, but to no avail. Ramona seems engrossed in whatever she’s reading, barely even replying to her friend, who seems to regard it as natural occurrence. They leave after another cup of coffee, Ramona gracing him with a slight smile, which made it much harder to stand, and Claire winking at him, saying, “Great coffee. We’ll be back soon!”

Part of him has to admit, Talagbusao thinks to himself as he helps Hank with the incoming lunch orders, that maybe Ramona coming back wouldn’t be such a good idea. It isn’t fair. All that he was asking for was a couple of fun dates, maybe, nothing serious, and then fate or destiny or some ancient love goddess decided to throw him a bone in the shape of the most beautiful woman Talagbusao has ever met. He can’t decide if he was lucky or not. Maybe if he just stuck to playing cashier at their arcade, this wouldn’t have happened to him. But it’s too late. It already has.

Next time, _next time_ , he swears on the 19 pieces of paper in his pocket, he is definitely going to get her number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's actually the first time i'm trying a multichapter fic uhu I promise to try)
> 
> This is really silly and I know Ramona/Talagbusao is problematic in canon but wahey that's what AUs are for! T is not a war god here but the Trese family is still involved. In stuff. Anyway, thanks for reading, lovely person! xoxox


	2. storms bring opportunities to the damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Talagbusao tries to impress, a storm provides an opportunity, and umbrellas are overrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful [lunardistance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lunardistance) and [Meicdon13](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Meicdon13) for their betas and suggestions xoxox You guys are awesome! All other mistakes and inconsistencies are mine.
> 
> Trese comics and characters (c) Budjette Tan and KaJo Baldisimo

Two months later and he still doesn’t have her number.

Not for lack of trying, though. After their frankly forgettable first encounter, Ramona and her friend Claire have taken to coming by the café semi-regularly. Talagbusao has found out from Claire that Ramona works for an NGO that helps women and children suffering from abuse. He’s fascinated; and he would have probed further, itching to know more about this mysterious woman who plagues his nights, and the private moments he spends inside the bathroom, but Claire cut him off with an exasperated gesture.

“Look, Talagbusao,” she sighed, sitting at the bar and drinking coffee mixed with some of the brandy stashed behind the counter. It was nearing dusk that day, and Talagbusao was working the night shift. Claire came alone as Ramona was busy with a conference. “Maybe if you grew some balls and asked her yourself, you’d know by now. Why are you being _torpe_ , you big lug, what’s the matter?”

Talagbusao had no answer then, and still has no answer now. Once or twice he has tried to slip the question in while Ramona orders her usual cappuccino, but one look at her and he’s tongue-tied. He prides himself on his ability to chat up complete strangers as a barista is expected to do, but all that flies out once it’s Ramona and her smooth, pale neck in front of him.

_Am I cursed_ , he finds himself thinking on more than one occasion. _Did I piss on a nuno by mistake and not notice it, is that it?_

Things take turn for the worse when the creepy brat Alex got on his case as well.

One night, Talagbusao is washing some dishes when he hears a voice speak: “ _Ninang_ is angry at you.”

Heart racing in his chest and a scream fighting its way up his throat, he whips around so fast he’s sure his neck will suffer later, and sees Alex staring at him from the stairs.

“She told me you were naughty last night,” Alex informs him in her deadpan Wednesday Addams tone. The little girl cocks her head to one side, her bangs placing half her face in shadow. “Also, you forgot to leave food for the _duwende_ again. It’s okay, I left some cookies. But try to remember next time.”

“What the fu-“ he whispers to himself before getting distracted by the water overflowing in the sink. When he looks back, Alex has disappeared, probably upstairs to play with Jimmy or her imaginary friends. Who is that _Ninang_ even supposed to be, and _naughty_? Come on, the kid can’t possibly know how he spent last night with a couple of the girls who gave him their numbers, can she? Or that he went out to watch a movie with Tommy and his friends because that was his day-off and was he not allowed to have fun?

The following morning, Talagbusao asks Hank which _Ninang_ Alex was talking about, and finds out she’s supposed to be somebody called Maria. Well. Talagbusao’s pretty sure he doesn’t know any Marias, especially not a Maria who’s godmother to the café’s pet brat. Anyway, what would she know about him? And what’s the problem with trying to forget a certain someone with other nice people, if that certain someone won’t even talk to him unless it’s about coffee? Surely, any person of legal age can understand how that works?

The thought that a nine-year-old can somehow sense his current predicament weighs heavily on Talagbusao’s mind. God, he’s such a loser. Unable to even string two words together in front of a girl; is this really what his life’s gonna be like for the foreseeable future? Unless Ramona finds another café to spend her afternoons in, he’s doomed.

Maybe he should just hand in his resignation and be done with it, because all this philosophical bullshit is certainly not worth the pay.

All these are on his mind one particularly rainy afternoon in September. The weather forecast that morning warned of a new typhoon – Pepang, if he was not mistaken. There had been barely any customers, and the stillness of the place, coupled with his deep, dark thoughts, made him lose track of time. It’s almost the end of his shift.

Talagbusao wastes no time in setting everything right before Hank catches him slacking off and within minutes, he’s ready to go home, where his parents are missing their only child. Carlito being back from the hiking trip means no more free bedspace for him, but he doesn’t really mind it. Home, and his mother’s cooking, would be nice. And perhaps he could feel sorry for himself better in his own bed.

It is proof of his confused state that he almost jumps out of his skin when another person flits into view, and it’s not the shadow from Alcove 5, because as far as Talagbusao is concerned, that shadow _never_ leaves. This person has come and gone and ordered coffee, and he has jacked off to the thought of her for two months and how can he forget. How can he forget that Ramona is _there_. That Ramona is walking towards the glass doors, peering outside at the torrential rain, brow furrowed and in shorts, _oh god, her legs are perfect_.

Talagbusao is pretty sure he made some kind of noise, because Ramona looks back at him and walks nearer. She’s standing really close now and Talagbusao smells a hint of something sweet, like maybe jasmine; he can’t really tell women’s perfumes apart. She’s asking him something, and maybe it’s not decent to look at a person’s mouth while conversing but that’s exactly what he does, anyway.

“Can I stay here a while? _Magpapatila lang_. Of all the times to forget an umbrella,” Ramona tells him, irritated, it seems like, although he can’t really tell because he’s too transfixed by the way her mouth moves. She brushes her hair off one shoulder and sits at the bar, sighing. Talagbusao remembers a couple of extra umbrellas by Hank’s cabinet and after ten seconds of deliberation, decides to not offer her one.

It is, after all, a once in a lifetime opportunity to play knight in shining armor with the maiden of your dreams.

Talagbusao takes a deep breath to still his nerves. “My shift is over, actually. Just about to go home. I-I could give you a ride if you-“

The glare in Ramona’s eyes, combined with her ever-so-slightly leaning away from him, implies that his suggestion is not welcome. His heart sinks. Was he too forward? Is she classifying him into the Guys Who Can’t Get A Fucking Hint Club? Is she thoroughly disgusted?

“No, thanks. I’ll just wait for it to pass. You’re a 24-hour shop, right?”

_Of course._ “Y-yeah, we are. Hank’s still inside, I think, so you won’t be alone.” Extremely embarrassed, Talagbusao gathers his things up hastily, pausing for a final goodbye, since she definitely will not be back after that stunt he pulled. “I’ll be going then. Hopefully Magallanes is not too flooded by this time.” He all but runs to the door when she calls out to him.

“Wait! You said Magallanes?” When Talagbusao looks back at her, Ramona’s frowning and rubbing the back of a hand on her forehead, as if trying to force her brain into making a decision. “My house is around there too,” she explains. Apparently coming into a decision, she shrugs, and slides off her seat. “Okay, you can give me a ride.”

There’s something rising up from Talagbusao’s stomach and he’s not sure if it’s bile or a psychological manifestation of anxiety, but goddamn if he’s going to screw this up, when the heavens looked down upon him with a blessing of rain and let him score, _finally_. Ramona waits by his side as he opens an umbrella for them to share, and she stops him before they step out.

“You know my friend Claire, right? She works for the NBI and she knows I’m here today, so if I go missing she’ll certainly know you did it,” the warning is delivered in a cool, indifferent voice, but her eyes are hard as steel. _Do not cross me_ , they seem to say. _Cross me and you fucking die_.

It sends a chill down Talagbusao’s spine, regardless. He knows Claire works for law enforcement, and he’s seen her take down a couple of guys who went too far and bothered her. There isn’t anything to indicate that Ramona is less threatening than her friend. Besides, he’s not planning on doing anything unsavoury towards her; he’s not that type of guy.

He nods in agreement, finding it hard to speak with the possibility of vomit bursting out, and leads her towards where his ride is parked. They look at it for a couple of seconds before Ramona goes, “Nope, I’m out,” and starts pulling the umbrella towards the direction of the cafe.

“I have an extra helmet and a raincoat!” Talagbusao is sure he just shouted that at her in a panic because Ramona is looking up at him in alarm, her eyes wide and mouth open. He’s also sure that’s he’s screwed it up beyond repair now. She’ll probably run back to the café and call Hank or the police or maybe take him down in some judo move and leave him drowning in the pouring rain.

Except Ramona does neither, and to his surprise, she _laughs_. She laughs at him, a hand flying to her mouth, shoulders shaking, and she staggers out of the umbrella a bit, drops of rain shining like pearls caught on her dark hair. She lights up, and for a moment, Talagbusao stands stupefied, entranced by the change laughter brings to her. He feels a deep longing inside him to always see her like this, to always see her smile, to make her happy by something he did or said, to make her happy because of him. He doesn’t even realize his left side is soaking wet until Ramona herself pushes the umbrella back, still grinning.

“Come on, let’s see your extra helmet and raincoat,” she says, and she leads him towards his bike, and he follows.

The extra helmet is there, for emergencies, but Talagbusao only has one raincoat, and he insists Ramona use it. “Are you sure about this? This weather is pretty crazy, and it’s cold,” she asks him, warily taking the raincoat from him.

Talagbusao smiles, “I’ll just change when I get home, and I’m fine with the cold. You take it; you have papers in your bag, right?”

Nodding solemnly, Ramona puts it on, carefully adjusting her bag inside, and secures the helmet on her head for good reason. She stands to the side while Talagbusao revs up the engine. She then climbs up behind him, lacing her fingers around his waist, and sending a jolt of not-unwelcome heat towards somewhere lower.

Up until now, Talagbusao hasn’t really considered the mechanics of them riding his bike together. His offer was spur-of-the-moment, a classic case of him talking before thinking. But now that it’s happening, he can’t help but second-guess himself, because nothing has prepared him for the feeling of her body pressed against him ( _her bag unfortunately shielding her chest_ ); her thighs, open; and her hands tight against his abdomen, inches from where he is slowly growing uncomfortably hard. He can’t help but imagine those small hands sinking lower to where he desperately needs it and _shit_ , he needs to swallow this down before he loses it and crashes them into oncoming traffic.

Yes, he didn’t need the raincoat. This typhoon Pepang should serve as the coldest of cold showers.

“Turn right here, third house on the left!” Ramona shouts near his ear, and he’s both sorry and thankful that the ride is almost finished. He stops the bike by a roofed blue gate, and Ramona climbs down, pulling off both helmet and raincoat and handing them back to him. Talagbusao is suddenly hyper-aware of the tent in his pants, and he discreetly places the helmet on his lap, if only to preserve a little dignity.

“Thanks,” Ramona smiles at him, and did her eyes just travel down to where his wet shirt is plastered to his skin? Talagbusao congratulates himself on wearing a white shirt today, as the translucent fabric shows off the tattoos that decorate the entirety of his chest, something he’s proud of, but not normally seen. Her eyes shoot back up again, and is the high color on her cheeks because of the cold or of his currently see-through shirt? He has so many questions but only manages to ask one.

“Can I have your number?” He says it so quietly he’s not sure if she heard him over the sound of the sky hurling buckets of rain at them.

Ramona turns to the lock at her gate, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You already have my address, and you ask for my number?” she catches his eye again before running up the steps of her house, leaving Talagbusao wet, cold, flushed, and confused.

He makes it back home in record time, stopping only for a quick kiss on his mother’s cheek and a _mano_ for his father before flying to his room, where he scrambles to relieve himself with images of dark hair circled with pearls, and secret smiles exchanged behind doors, and he comes disconcertingly fast, still shaking from the cold, white streaks blending with rainwater puddles at his feet.

The next time she orders a cappuccino from the café, she presses a small slip of paper between his fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT WAS HARD
> 
> I HOPE YOU ENJOYED UNCOMFORTABLY AROUSED TALAGBUSAO, I should probably up the rating to M. Also, Typhoon Maring was an inspiration because I had no internet and I finished this in a sitting so thanks for that (not).
> 
> About Claire: she’s totally made up, she works for the NBI, and her real name may be Maria Clara haha um yeah but she doesn’t like it; Ramona calls her Clarita sometimes to piss her off


End file.
